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The Trail to Oregon

The Oregon Trail is unforgiving…but the past is even deadlier…

Colt, a skilled orphan with a thirst for adventure, sets out to prove his worth on the Oregon Trail, but the vast wilderness offers more peril than promise. Elsie, running from a brutal gang leader named Finn, seeks refuge in the trail’s anonymity. When their lives collide, they’re forced into an uneasy partnership, bound by necessity and haunted by secrets. But Finn isn’t far behind…Obsessed and violent, he’ll destroy anyone in his path to reclaim Elsie. As danger closes in, Colt and Elsie must fight to stay one step ahead—while protecting the lives of those traveling with them. Can they outrun the past, or will it consume them both before they reach the promise of Oregon?

Written by:

Western Historical Adventure Author

4.3/5

4.3/5 (396 ratings)

Prologue

Big Cedar, Missouri, 1851

 

“Colt? Get inside and look after the others.”

Colt froze at the note of panic in Eugene’s voice. Eugene Thornton, owner and principal tutor of Thornton’s Way Orphanage, was usually a reserved, quiet man.

Colt shook his ragged brown hair out of his eyes and hurried to join Eugene as quickly as he could with an armload of freshly-split firewood. “Eugene? What is it?” he asked, dropping the stack of logs beside the front steps of the orphanage.

The older man didn’t seem to hear him; he stood on the front porch, eagle-like eyes staring down the zigzagging track through the woods, away from the orphanage.

Thornton’s Way was a large wooden building surrounded by a large pines, located high in the foothills at the base of the Ozark Mountains. A single lane wound connected the orphanage to the town of Big Cedar, Missouri, winding through the shade of the evergreen forest.

Then, Colt heard it too: the rhythmic pounding of hooves thundering up the trail. He squinted into the distance, shading his chestnut eyes from the sun as he watched a cloud of dust appear on the horizon, growing bigger and bigger every moment. Before long, several figures on horseback resolved from the haze; at that pace, they’d be here any moment.

“Are we expecting visitors?” Colt asked Eugene, who stood above him on the orphanage steps, wearing a crisp linen shirt with his usual high-waisted dress trousers. He looked every inch the gentleman, while Colt, all of eighteen summers, wore rough dungarees and a work shirt of plain, mottled cotton.

It was a balmy morning in southern Missouri, the Ozarks forming an almost surreal green haze on the horizon as the last wisps of mountain fog burned off. The site Eugene had chosen for his orphanage was spectacular, with a clear view down a wooded valley, where the White River meandered through the hills, flashing with sunlight.

“No, we are not,” Eugene said tightly. He fished a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow. “Colt? Be a good lad and go inside. Tell Miss Emeline to gather the children and keep them together. Thank you.”

Colt grimaced. This isn’t like Eugene. His master generally explained his actions, saying it made for a better education. Now, however, Colt detected an unfamiliar sharpness in Eugene’s tone, which set Colt’s teeth on edge.

“Please, Colt—leave this to me,” Eugene whispered.

Colt glanced at the wooden logs he’d left in a pile outside the door, then reluctantly padded up the steps into the orphanage. Moments later, he heard the riders’ whoops and calls as they brought their steeds to a quick halt.

What if they’re bandits? Outlaws? Inside the hallway of the orphanage, Colt peered around the door to view the newcomers.

We’re trapped up here. Though this high valley normally seemed like a paradise, right now, it felt like a prison. There was no way out, apart from the very trail these burly men in heavy riding cloaks had taken. Otherwise, the wilds and game trails led only into the mountains, with nowhere to go for days.

“Eugene Thornton? You’re under orders to cease operations.” A portly man with a fringe of greasy hair around his balding pate dismounted and strode forward. His clothes struggled to contain him, the buttons of his waistcoat straining over his massive belly, but their quality spoke of wealth. His shoulders could barely move, restrained by a too-small great coat.

Eugene struck his chin out defiantly. “Councilman Watkins? What is the meaning of this?” Colt’s mentor seemed thin and effete in comparison to the large men heading for the door; if they made trouble, got violent, Eugene would lose—badly.

At that moment, Colt realized that he was of a height with Eugene, and would certainly grow taller than the man who’d raised him.

“We’ve received reports that you got too many children. I’ve come to inspect your operation,” growled Councilman Watkins before spitting a wad of tobacco on the ground.

Colt bristled, balling up his fists at his sides. These men gave him a bad feeling. The riders wore rough jerkins and kerchiefs, nothing like the careful shirts and trousers that Eugene insisted every fledgling ‘gentleman’ under his care wear.

“What’s the meaning of this? My license and charter were confirmed this year, with personal approval by the mayor of Big Cedar himself.” Eugene had adopted the disapproving tone he usually reserved for when one of his wards had disappointed him, whether by stealing from the cookie jar or brawling in the yard.

A small, portly man cleared his throat and stepped forward. Colt guessed this was Councilman Watkins himself; his fine brocade coat, while obviously expensive, was several sizes too big for him.

Mr. Thornton, it’s quite clear—never mind what the mayor thinks! Springfield is changing, and I’ve been appointed to determine how public funds are spent. How many young’uns do you have here now, twenty?”

Springfield is changing. The words struck Colt’s ears. Hadn’t Eugene said something about that? In a rare moment of transparency, he’d mentioning something about trouble brewing between Missouri and Kansas—something to do with abolitionists versus slavers.

“Sixteen,” Eugene replied.

The councilman exhaled noisily through his nose. “Still too many. They’re all registered as free, are they?”

Colt’s brow furrowed. What does he mean by that?

“Colt?”

Colt spun to see Zacharias, one of their youngest orphans, standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding a ragged sock dolly. He was a little over five years old.

“Not now, Zachary. Where’s Miss Emeline?” Colt grabbed Zachariah’s hand and hurried him away from the entryway, toward the schoolroom.

“Children, I’m sure everything will be fine,” said Miss Emeline, teacher and steward to the youngest of the children, as Colt opened the door. The large woman wore a heavy purple dress and apron. A collection of youngsters, ranging from Zacharias’s age to fourteen, stood nervously, blinking owlishly at their teacher. Colt was the oldest by four years, which meant he had responsibilities.

“Colt, did Mr. Thornton say who’s at the door?”

She’s worried. The whites of her brown eyes were showing, and her voice wavered a little. He hadn’t seen Miss Emeline this nervous since Timony got lost in the backwoods overnight.

“It’s a councilman—Watkins, I think. He said something about there being too many of us.”

Raised voices spiked outside the door, followed by the tramp of boots marching up the hallway.

“Check every room—especially the cellar!”

Colt turned, positioning himself in front of the younger children. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like it at all. Thudding and scraping sounded from the hallway, then a sudden smash—possibly a plate or glass—before the door swung open.

“Really, gentlemen—these are children!”

Eugene’s back appeared briefly as he tried to block the doorway before being shoved aside.

Don’t!”

A stocky man pushed his way inside, stopping short when he found himself at eye-level with Colt. Colt nearly gagged at the stench rolling off him—stale sweat and bitter tobacco.

The man narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You think yerself a man, d’ya, son?”

Colt’s throat constricted as anger boiled through him, making his voice tight. “Don’t hurt them.”

The intruder scoffed, shaking his head, but the weaselly man who’d come in behind him burst out laughing.

“Careful, Stephan—This one looks fit as an ox. He’ll give your disreputable hide a run for its money!”

The stocky man snarled, his chest puffing up, but just then, Councilman Watkins appeared. His men snapped to attention, and all three turned to stare at Miss Emeline.

Eugene, who’d been hovering in the background, beckoned the children, ushering them to one side of the schoolroom.

Watkins eyed Emeline’s dark skin. “And uh … Miss. I take it you have papers? A proclamation of emancipation, signed by a judge?”

“I’ve had a freedom suit, sir, if that’s what you mean. Mr. Thornton himself helped me file the paperwork years ago,” Miss Emeline said tartly. “I was born free in Missouri, and I’ve got the papers to prove it.”

Colt felt something dangerous in the air. Watkins demanded to see the papers as the rest of his men ransacked the orphanage. Eugene had a dark, disgusted look on his face as he left for his office, then returned with a sheath of yellowing papers.

“I think you’ll find everything you need here, sir.” He held his head up and his back straight, and Colt did the same.

Always be a gentleman. Act as if God is watching, because he is. We’re here to be better than our fathers, no matter what assails us.

That was what Eugene had taught Colt. Eugene took care of most of their education, and a large part of it was how to act, talk, and think.

Expect the best from yourself, and others will respond accordingly.”

Colt watched the councilman huff over the papers as the others looked through the room, opening cupboards, shifting bookcases, and kicking up rugs as if looking for a hidden trapdoor.

I’m not sure Eugene’s advice will work with these men. They looked like the sort to throw fists first and ask questions later. Colt was angry, but he also felt a sense of helplessness. He was only one youth, eighteen summers old. What could he do to stop them? If he’s been older, stronger …

He cursed silently. These men were just laughing at his angry glares.

“Can’t find anythin’, Councilman,” reported one man after a thorough examination of the schoolroom.

“What, nothing?” Watkins shot a murderous glance at Eugene, who regarded the councilman coolly. Turning back to his men, he pressed, “No cellar? What about blankets? Signs people have been sleeping here recently—supplies, rope, food?”

The other guards looked baffled. “Well—”

Eugene interrupted imperiously. “This is an orphanage, sir. Of course we have spare blankets—and bedrolls, knapsacks for hiking, a fully-stocked larder. We attend to our orphans’ physical needs, along with their intellectual, physical, and spiritual education.”

“You have stables. Room for ten or more horses, I’d say,” the councilman shot back.

“And we occasionally teach riding,” Eugene added smoothly.

Colt noticed he didn’t mention that, sometimes, they hosted travelers too. Once or twice every few months, a rider or two would clip up the trail in the middle of the night, and Eugene and Emeline would tend to them. They always kept to the stables, and they were always gone before dawn.

Watkins looked put out by his failure to find … whatever it was that they were looking for. He conferred with his men, muttering angrily, before producing a sheet of paper.

“Sixteen is too many.” The small, chubby man shot a dark look at Miss Emeline. “You should have no more than fifteen souls here. If you cannot reduce your numbers, I’ll be forced to shut you down.”

“I beg your pardon, Councilman, but when did that become law?” Eugene demanded, twin spots of color rising to his cheeks. Colt had never seen him this angry.

“New emergency powers—because of the unrest. We got abolitionists crossing state lines, stirring up trouble. We can’t afford for anything to happen. Fifteen, Mr. Thornton!” The councilman shot another look at Miss Emeline.

Colt knew the answer. It was simple, really.

“I’ll go.”

***

“Colt, no—this is all a misunderstanding! I shall take the matter up with the mayor, and this nonsense will be settled soon enough,” Eugene said from the doorway as Colt finished packing his few belongings into a knapsack. He had a set of spare clothes, his blanket, the knife that Eugene himself had given him, as well as a small kit he’d put together himself over the years: fishing line and hooks, twine and thread, a roll of bandage, flint and strike.

Colt looked up. He’d been dreading this moment, but he knew what he had to do.

The councilman and his men had left nearly an hour ago, still not entirely satisfied, but it appeared there was little they could do to argue with Colt’s solution. The house was still in an uproar, the children rattled as Miss Emeline put them to work righting the furniture.

“Sir— ” Colt began.

“Eugene, please.” Smiling sadly, the older man shook his head. “I think you’ve earned the right to call me by name.”

“Eugene, my mind is made up. This is the only thing I can do to help, and— ” he hesitated as a knot formed in his throat.

How am I supposed to tell him that I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while now? Colt felt conflicted. Eugene had been good to him—very good, in fact. He owed everything to Eugene, from learning his letters to how to survive in the wilderness.

But I can’t live on this mountain for the rest of my life. Colt thought about the way the councilman’s cronies had laughed at him, seeing him as nothing more than a boy, about how they’d disrespected Eugene and Emeline. He didn’t want that for himself or anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, Colt said, “I want to thank you for raising me so well. I’m eighteen now, Eugene. Others my age have already joined up or gone west to find their fortunes.”

I need more. Colt’s heart hammered. He knew there was something out there, something he craved. Maybe it was as simple as looking in the mirror, knowing he’d done something with his life.

“You told me once that we’re all tested in this life,” Colt said quietly.

“I remember.” Eugene’s distraught expression sobered, his mouth pressing into a somber line.

“I need to figure out who I am—who I can be. If I can do that, and help you and Miss Emeline in the process, then I should. With me gone, the councilman will have no reason to darken your door.”

Colt saw Eugene’s pained look; he knew his mentor had secrets of his own, not the least of which was who he helped in the dead of night.

This is a small way I can help.

“Ah Colt,” Eugene sighed. “There are so many things you don’t know. People are in trouble out there, and sometimes I can help, just as I took all of you in—a place to sleep for a night, a bit of food before they move on.”

“I know,” Colt said. Whatever his mentor was doing, he did it because he was a good man. Colt hoped he could become a good man, too.

He took another breath, then pulled out a sheet of paper that he’d folded carefully into his jacket pocket. It was a bill poster from Big Cedar, which Colt had picked up just the weekend before.

TAKE THE OREGON TRAIL!

ACRES OF RICH LAND, FERTILE LOTS AWAIT YOU!

GO WEST! THE UNITED STATES NEEDS YOU!

Eugene’s eyes grew wide as he examined the poster. “Colt … Traveling the Oregon Trail is a large undertaking—almost two thousand miles of mountains, rivers, prairie, and unceded territory—”

Colt held up a hand. “I know, but more folks are taking it every year. Companies hand out lots to men who work for them,” he countered, repeating what the recruiter had told him. He knew some history. After the successful negotiation and withdrawal of the British from Oregon Territories just a few years ago, the entire Californian Territory went up for grabs. The trail was busy with trappers, miners, loggers, and families, all eager for a new start.

“I see.” Eugene’s voice had grown quiet. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but hesitated. A moment later, he licked his lips and tried again.

“I had hoped that you would take my place one day, Colt. Perhaps that was more wishful thinking than what is best for you. Judging by what I saw today, I believe you’ve become a man already. You’ll be a credit to any endeavor you put your heart to.”

As supportive as Eugene was being, Colt winced inwardly at the thought of running the orphanage.

I don’t want that life—I can’t stay here forever.

Eugene helped Colt with the last of his things, giving him the best rind of cheese and cured meat and a stout hazel staff.

“One more thing,” Eugene said, then disappeared into the stables and returned with Patience. The dappled mare was Colt’s favorite, a calm, steady mount who’d accompanied him on many mountain journeys.

“Oh, Eugene—thank you!” Colt ran his hand over Patience’s nose, bending to lean his forehead against her muzzle.

Eugene’s eyes glistened as he cleared his throat. “Remember what I’ve taught you, Colt. You’ll have to be strong out there, but I hope you remember to be kind, as well.”

“I will, sir,” Colt promised, securing his pack to Patience’s saddle, and mounted. He took one last look back at Thornton’s Way Orphanage, the only home he’d ever known. It already looked a whole lot smaller.

And just like that, it was done. Colt turned, setting his sights northwest.

Chapter One

Kansas City, 1851

 

“First time in the city, son?” Alpert, the trapper Colt had been riding with, chuckled as Colt surveyed the bustle of Kansas City with wide eyes. The athletic man wore his brown whiskers long on the sides, and a large bearskin cloak covered his shoulders, trailing over his horse’s rump.

I wish everyone would stop calling me ‘son.’ Colt frowned, but saw no reason to lie. He sensed that the trapper was mocking him, but didn’t understand why.

Just because I don’t know the city yet doesn’t mean I can’t grow accustomed to it.

“I’ve been to St. Louis once before, and have visited Springfield several times,” Colt replied, scanning the wagons, caravans, and riders in front of them. Kansas City was big, easily the largest that Colt had ever seen. He suddenly longed for the birch trees they’d camped under the night before, with nothing but the morning songs of birds filling the air.

There was noise here, too, but it was very different. Teamsters shouted as they corralled wagons into large areas outside the city while roadside vendors touted their wares, offering everything from pies and fresh bread to rows of sausages. To their right, an argument broke out, a group of young men angrily jabbing their fingers at each other, and underneath everything, wheels creaked and horses stamped.

Two-story warehouses lay scattered between cattle yards. Animals and wagons threw up a constant haze of dust, but in the distance, Colt could see the rise of a steeple and rows of buildings.

We’re not even inside the city yet.

Colt had met Alpert, a somewhat sarcastic fur trapper, on his second day out from the orphanage. Since they’d been headed in the same direction, it had only made sense to pool their resources and make the trek together. Colt watched camp for half the night, and the French trapper took the second watch.

Alpert had shown Colt a few tricks about trapping and the business of treating hides and fur, while Colt hunted. Alpert, it turned out, wasn’t much of a talker—which had suited Colt at first, as he didn’t really know what to say after leaving the only home he’d really known.

It had been an easy arrangement, but Colt was glad for it to end. By day four of their journey, Alpert’s silence—punctuated by dour humor—had begun to grate. As intimidating as Kansas City was, Colt felt something else, too: excitement.

The plink of piano keys drifted from a saloon up ahead.

Saloons are the devil’s hideout,” Eugene had once informed Colt, lending fuel to his nightmares when he’d been younger. Now, however, the prospect of going into his first saloon was intriguing.

Alpert coughed and jerked his chin toward the city ahead, them muttered, “Stay safe out there. Remember, if you’re plannin’ to take the Oregon Trail, seek out Boone. He’s the best.” Then, raising a hand, the trapper and the rolled furs on the back of his saddle disappeared into the crowd.

Boone. Colt navigated his way through the crowds, turning down offers of food and clothing as he made his way to the wagon grounds. Dust rose around him in great billowing clouds with the constant churn of traffic. Wagons were parked here and there, teamsters and trailsmen sitting around small cookfires or lounging on their carts as they waited for orders to head out.

“Nebraska!” People wandered among the wagons, calling out destinations and services. Colt passed by one such young man with strawberry-blond hair, barely a hand of years on top of him, negotiating with a man Colt guessed was a wagonmaster.

“I can hunt, ride, and shoot real good. Best shot in my hometown, sir.”

“And where’s that—Nowhere, Missouri?” The man laughed through his thick black beard. His deep-set eyes were as dark as his beard, and he looked square enough to give a bull a fair go in a wrestling match.

“I don’t take freeloaders on my train. Eight hundred dollars—that’s the price. I’ve got plenty riders, hunters, and shooters already.”

The blond youth quailed at the wagonmaster’s nonchalance, then mumbled something about having to see what he could do before slinking off into the crowd—doubtless to try his luck with some other wagon train.

Eight hundred dollars? Colt gaped. He had nowhere close to that much money, even with the coin purse Eugene had given him. He and the other orphans had earned pocket money by gathering and splitting wood; however, due to the cost of running the orphanage, Eugene couldn’t afford to pay much for the work.

Of course, Colt could guess why the bigger wagon trains would be so expensive. Technically, he could take the trail on his own, but he didn’t know the latest routes. He’d definitely get lost on his own.

Then, there were the obvious dangers: accidents and harsh weather, not to mention wolves, snakes, and outlaws. What would happen if he were to get injured out there in the middle of nowhere, miles away from everything? What if he was attacked?

On top of all that, there were the Natives to consider, as well. Though record numbers of people took the trail these days, it was still very dangerous indeed. All it took was an ‘accident’ or misunderstanding between the local Natives and a group of wagoners for entire territories to be plunged into a vicious cycle of violence and revenge.

“You thinking it’ll get cheaper if you just sit there?”

Colt looked up and swallowed. The black bearded wagonmaster was looking straight at him.

Maybe this isn’t Boone, anyway. Maybe this guy is just expensive—

“Boone!” A shout raised past the circle of wagons, splitting the air like the scream of an eagle.

Colt’s heart sank. This guy, with his eight-hundred-dollar ticket, was the man he was looking for.

A cry of pain followed the shout, then another call: “Come quick—it’s Micah! The mules got ’im!”

“Oh, hell,” Boone muttered, then dropped the bit of tack he was holding and turned, running between the wagons toward the source of the shout.

Colt followed to see people scrambling back from a central area, away from a pair of bucking mules. One man lay on the ground in a crumpled heap. The mules stamped and kicked in the middle of the mayhem, attached to each other by a length of rope.

Colt reacted, leaping off Patience and jogging forward into the fray. Older trailsmen circled the mules warily, but all kept their distance, obviously reluctant to approach.

Colt knew what was happening immediately. They’re feeding off each other’s panic. The rope between the mules was much too short; the more upset one grew, the less slack the other had to get away.

“Here, now, here,” Colt murmured, fishing around in his belt pouch for a bit of dried apple. Technically, they were for Patience, but he didn’t think she’d mind.

“Hey, there …” Clot angled his body to the side, keeping his voice low as he took a step closer, throwing one of the bits of apple to the panicked mule. At first, it didn’t pay him any attention, but after a few moments, its ears swiveled in response.

“Hush, now—no need for this, is there?”

Colt remembered Miss Emeline saying he had a way with animals, but he hadn’t thought about it much. I just preferred them to people. In the last few years, when he’d received as much education as Eugene could offer, Colt had naturally drifted outdoors to spend time with the horses, chickens, and the occasional mule. In truth, Eugene and Emeline had always seemed busy with the younger ones, and Colt guessed things were just easier with the animals, away from the commotion that children inevitably stirred up.

Colt avoided looking at the mule directly as he took another step forward, making soothing noises, and threw another bit of apple.

This time, she took it, bending down quickly to gobble it up.

Now!

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